


Your Atlas

by Nerves



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo Fills [1]
Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Grooming, M/M, One Shot, Past Underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-10 23:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18418427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerves/pseuds/Nerves
Summary: Walter's death is abrupt and unexpected, and the loss of him leaves Jim reeling when he can't stop thinking about the last words he said to him.Prompt fill for Bad Things Happen Bingo on Tumblr.





	Your Atlas

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks! This is a sad little oneshot requested by Moogle from my Bad Things Happen Bingo card. If you would like to make a request, head on over to my Tumblr at nerv-s. Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think.

It becomes clear about twenty minutes into the wake that beyond the person who arranged the event, Walter Strickler will not be remembered.

 

The service is sparsely attended with only about two dozen bodies roaming the house, and yet as Jim stands in the center of it all in his Sunday best, he nearly feels suffocated by the weight of it all. The house is cold, colder than Walter ever kept it. He always liked it hot in the house, so hot that it sometimes made Jim sweat when he even thought about it, no matter where he was.  _ He would hate this, _ Jim thinks as he looks around at the low-lit living room, everything about the garish space turned down to levels inhabitable by humans, in spite of the fact that there are only two of them currently in the house. He had gone to all the trouble of making this space tolerable, and no one appreciates it.

 

Claire and Toby stand politely looking at the urn and the framed picture at the end of the room for an appropriate amount of time before they join him near the bookcases. Claire puts a consoling hand on his arm while Toby gives him an awkward smile. This is a service for the benefit of Walter’s human life, and yet even the humans in the room know that it is all a facade. “How are you holding up, Jimbo?” Toby asks him. Jim nearly smiles. They are grown now, but still Toby calls him the same thing that he did when they were kids. It almost makes him feel warm, but the icy feeling that’s been in his gut for a week won’t leave.

 

“I’m surviving,” he says noncommittally, placing his hand over Claire’s for a moment to give it a squeeze before letting go once more. He pauses. “It’s weird.” He pauses again, looking as if he is about to say something, but no more words pass from his lips.

 

“Yeah,” she says after an awkward amount of silence, something strange in her voice. They didn’t know how to feel about him any more than the masked changelings in the room, and none of them really knew Walter the way he did. His chest feels tight.

 

“I’d offer to get you some food, but…” Toby trails off, looking at the empty table where there was meant to be a broad array of food, but where only a lone fruit platter sits. It sucks. They all know it sucks. Jim wishes that Toby hadn’t mentioned it, but he’s not going to pick a fight with him about it - not today, not when he bothered to show up at all.

 

“I should have had this catered,” Jim says quietly, irritation creeping into his tone. “I had thought that if they were going to show up, they would at least have the decency to bring something.” He looks at a stranger across the room, and she holds his gaze for a long moment before she looks away, taking a sip of her wine - wine that  _ he _ had provided from Walter’s own stock. “I wish they hadn’t come at all. This whole thing is stupid. They never gave him a chance, and now they’re basically spitting on his grave.”

 

“Hey, hey - you  _ know _ they suck and are wrong. Don’t let that sour your memory of him.” Claire’s voice is soft and sympathetic though he knows that she speaks lies. She loved Walter Strickler no more than any of the changelings in the room, no more than Toby. He heaves a sigh, and tries not to let the sink of his shoulders pull him all the way to the ground.

 

“He deserved better,” Jim murmurs, folding his arms across his chest, folding into himself. The glamour mask that sits firmly on his face feels wrong, too tight. It’s strange - when he had turned he so desperately wanted his human face, his human body back. Now it feels like a prison, a cage far too small for him.

 

“This might not have turned out how you wanted, but you still will always have your memories of him.” He looks at Claire, mouth pressed in a firm line. She’s struggling to find nice things to say, he can tell. Toby’s given up entirely, and is perusing the bookshelf. Jim wishes that he wouldn’t, but he doesn’t want to scare them off, not when he was so surprised to see them come in the first place - and with a fruit plate too.

 

“I guess,” he says, watching as Toby squints at one of the titles printed in an uncommon dialect of Trollish.  _ Granslatr _ , if Jim remembers correctly. Walter sometimes whispered to him in it late in the day when he thought Jim was sleeping. “That doesn’t change the fact that in this particular moment everyone is an asshole.” Toby seems rather taken with the book, and pulls it from the shelf. As he does so, a piece of photo paper falls to the floor, catching his attention. Jim’s heart leaps into his throat. “Don’t-” he begins to say, but Toby is already bending down to pick up the photograph, and as he picks it up he flips it over to look at it. His eyebrows shoot up, and he turns to Jim, covertly turning the picture towards him.

 

“Damn - pretty scandalous, Jimbo,” he says. Claire cranes her head to look, and Jim’s hand nearly collides with her ear as he quickly snatches the photo from Toby’s hand and puts it in his suit coat pocket.

 

“That’s not supposed to be out,” Jim whispers awkwardly, the face of his glamour flushed red. Toby gives him a look bordering on incredulous, eyes wide.

 

“Yeah, no shit,” Toby whispers back, popping open the book. As he turns to look down at it, he quickly snaps it shut again, squeezing his eyes shut along with it. Claire watches him, concern growing on her features.

 

“What’s wrong? Are you okay Toby?” She asks. Toby sighs, holding the book out to Jim.

 

“Yeah, I uh - I think I should just give this whole thing to you,” he says, turning away from the bookcase. Jim hastily takes the book from him, and stows it under his arm.

 

“Sorry, Tobes,” he says sheepishly. Claire is staring at him in concern, glancing down at the book. He can see Toby turning to Claire to say something, but before he gets a chance to, Jim sees two more people file into the house. “Mom,” he says, and makes his way over towards the door where the guests have just arrived. Barbara Lake turns to him, and her features contort into an odd union of joy and sorrow.

 

“Oh Jim,” she says, opening her arms to embrace him. It's strange to see her in a dress at all, let alone a black one. He welcomes her embrace, hugging her back with the book held securely in one hand. He does not want her to see it. Her arms around him feel so nice, so warm, and for a moment he feels comforted. "Hi mom."

 

She pulls back, and when she looks down at him he sees pity in her eyes.  _ It's a funeral, of course she's sad for you, _ he thinks to himself when he feels a flare of rage. "I'm so sorry, honey," she says, squeezing his upper arms. "I know that Walt meant a lot to you."  _ There's an understatement _ , he thinks bitterly. Perhaps it’s best that she doesn’t know the extent of it. He looks over his mother's shoulder and sees the figure whom she had arrived with. Nomura looks back at him with an unreadable expression. She holds a cookie platter in her hands, and in spite of the fact that he can see the grocery store label on the plastic cover, he finds himself grateful that they brought anything at all - even if it was last minute.

 

"Thanks mom," he says, pulling away from her to face Nomura properly. "Hey." She glances down at the book in his hand for a moment before meeting his gaze once more.

 

"Hey Jim. Sorry about Stricklander," she says, and it's almost genuine.  _ Of course, _ he thinks to himself. If there was anyone else who cared at least a little bit, it would be Nomura. "I know you... meant a lot to him." Her words feel like an odd mimicry of Barbara's, even though she surely was already planning on saying them before her wife spoke.

 

"Thanks," he says, gripping the book tight, fingernails biting into the leather. There is a moment of tense silence as their gazes move down the room towards the urn and portrait. He looks so handsome in the picture, a warm, mysterious smile on his face. It's Jim's favorite picture of him.

 

_ "Did it come out alright?" Walter had asked, eyes glinting beautifully in the late afternoon light. Jim smiled, looking at the picture on his phone. _

 

_ "Yeah. You look hot," he replied in a voice only half-sarcastic, and Walter laughed. _

 

_ "Flattery will get you everywhere, Young Atlas." He bent over then, fingers threading through Jim's hair, nails scraping gently over his scalp. He remembers the taste of Walter's lips, even now. _

 

"Here, let me take that," Jim says suddenly, reaching out to grab the platter from Nomura. She hands it to him with no argument, and then brushes a wrinkle out of her dress while muttering a soft thanks.

 

"I suppose we should pay our respects," Barbara says after another long moment, reaching out and squeezing Jim's hand and giving him a kiss on the cheek. "We'll be back," she tells him, and then slips her hand into Nomura's and walks with her across the room. He watches them in silence for a moment before he finds his eyes wandering to the portrait again. He forces himself to look away, and turns instead to the depressing food table.

 

Claire approaches him as he pops the lid off of the platter, and stands there holding it awkwardly for a few moments while looking down at the assortment of cookies. She stands with him in silence for a while before she speaks up.

 

"I'm sorry, Jim." He turns to look at her curiously. She does not makes eye contact with him, but rather stares absently at the portrait across the room. She's procured a glass of wine somewhere along the way, the red of it nearly a perfect match for her lipstick. Walter would have approved of the bold choice, he's sure. "I still don't get it." He feels a knot in his stomach.

 

"I know," he says, looking back down at the platter.

 

"I mean- I know that you loved him, and yeah I definitely don't get it after everything that he did to you, but I don't want you to think that I... I don't know. That I think any less of you, I guess."

 

"I said I know, Claire," he snaps, turning towards her. "You made your feelings clear, we don't need to talk about it." She looks at him with wide eyes, shocked.

 

"Jim..."

 

"No, I've got it. Thanks for coming, but you really don't need to try so hard to find nice things to say about him now that he's dead when you had nothing nice to say about him when he was alive." A nearby triad of changelings looks in their direction as his voice raises. "I get it. Everyone hates him, I'm the only one that's sad to see him go. I get it." His tone catches his mother’s attention, and as he glances at her he can see sadness in her features.

 

"I'm sorry, Jim," Claire whispers, and when looks back at her he can see emotion pooling in the corners of his eyes. Regret and guilt wash over him instantly, and he looks away.

 

"Forget it," he says, and begins walking towards the kitchen. He hears the whispers that follow them, but ignores the words as best as he can.

 

"That's Stricklander's boy toy," a tall changeling in a pantsuit says to their companion in a voice not quite quiet enough to be secretive. "You know - the one that used to be the Trollhunter." Jim pushes on, closing the kitchen door shut behind him. He makes his way over to the recycling bin, tries to put the platter cover into it, finds that it doesn't fit, and flings it carelessly onto the countertop. He squeezes his hand into a fist at his side while the other one grips the book tightly, biting back the growl that threatens in his throat. He can't lose his cool, not here, not now.

 

_ "Breathe, Jim." _

 

He squeezes his eyes shut too, trying to push away the memory of Walter's voice while at the same time desperately grasping for it. He knows that it’s only a matter of time before he starts to forget his voice, his face, the feeling of his touch. Jim shudders, feeling tears biting at his eyes.  _ Stop. Not now. Wait until everyone is gone. _ They already resented him enough for leaving with Walter, he knows they don’t want to see him so torn up about him too.

 

_ After everything that he did. _ Everyone is saying it so much now, like a mockery of his own words.  _ After everything that he did. _

 

He takes a deep breath, and then another. He counts them,  _ one, two, three, four, five, _ and the voice in his head sounds like the one that murmured sweet nothings to him while its owner was deep inside of him.

 

He opens his eyes, and looks down at the book that he holds in his hands. The cover is worn but cared for, a book well loved. The dialect is strange and unfamiliar for the most part, but it doesn’t matter because Jim already knows what it says.

 

_ Atlas. _

 

He doesn’t know how he keeps his hands steady as he opens the cover, but he does, and he’s greeted by a carved out cavity where the pages once were, the space instead filled with photographs and letters. Jim looks at the letter on the top, but does not open it. He already knows what that one says too. Walking to the counter, he sets the book down and begins pulling out photos and papers, the treasures that he knew Walter kept. Jim is in every single picture, sometimes with Walter, but usually alone. His chest feels tight again.

 

_ “Why are you with me, Jim?” He said it while staring up at the ceiling, absently stroking the hair between Jim’s horns. His own horns hung over the side of his bed, their legs tangled together, his claws scraping so so softly against his scalp. “After what I did to you, why did you choose me?” Jim stares at a spot on the wall, a place where he had seen a bug last week, a place where he swears that he can still see its shadow. His own hands curl absently into the sheets on either side of Stricklander, nuzzling his nose against his chest, stone on stone. _

 

_ “What else could I do?” _

 

He pulls out a picture from one of the early days, the days from before Merlin and his cursed amulet, before he and Claire were friends, back when his greatest worry was how much jail time would separate them should anyone find out. He’s so young in the picture, sixteen and fresh-faced, hair a mess and laughing as he sits on Walter’s ugly orange couch with a bowl of noodles in his lap - the first meal he ever cooked for him. Jim still made it every now and then, knowing it’s a secret favorite of Walter’s - but not anymore. Just the thought of them turns his stomach.

 

_ “You stole me, Walter!” Jim shouted it across the living room, jabbing a finger at him. “You fucking stole my only chance at a normal childhood, and you have the gall to stand there acting like you’re the victim. Fuck. You.” _

 

Jim takes in another deep, shaky breath, setting down the picture. His hands are trembling.

 

_ “I love you Jim. I love you so much, and I always have. I loved you since I first met you.” Jim shakes his head as Walter pleads with him, anger boiling so hot in his gut. “If you want to scorn me, then scorn me. If you want to hurt me, hurt me. But please -  _ **_please_ ** _ \- don’t leave me.” _

 

His eyes are drawn to the letter once more, and he slowly reaches out. He had used such cheap, crappy paper - ripped it out of a notebook and written on it with a ballpoint that had been laying around. His hands shake as he unfolds the letter, eyes roaming over words that he himself wrote.

 

_ Walter - _

 

_ I’m sorry, but I can’t forgive you. I’m suffocating here in this town, in this house, here with you. I see it clearly now, and if I stay with you I am going to be snuffed out. I need to make my own way, away from you. I’ve given you ten years of my life, ten years that I can never get back. I need the rest. _

 

_ I’ll be back for my things in a few days. I need some space. Don’t try to call me. _

 

_ -Jim _

 

He realizes that he’s crying only after a tear splashes down onto the page, blotting the cheap ink. Swiping angrily at his eyes, he puts the letter down and turns away from the counter, staring out of the back window. The sky is annoyingly bright and sunny.

 

_ “If you hadn’t done everything that you did, I wouldn’t be- be… be  _ **_this_ ** _!” _

 

_ “That’s not fair, Jim. I didn’t choose for you to become the Trollhunter - Merlin did.” _

 

_ “And he wouldn’t have chosen me if you weren’t so fucking close to me.” _

 

It was unfair. Jim knew it. Walter was responsible for a lot of bad shit, but not that particular one. He leans back against the counter, hands squeezing the edge of it tightly as he holds himself up. Tears still fall from his eyes, down his human cheeks.

 

_ “Then why did you stay with me? Why have you stayed for so many years if that’s really how you feel? Why did you tell me that you love me?” _

 

There are so many unfair things about his world, so many things that nearly make his heart stop with how powerful a blow they deal to his chest. Jim had wrestled with himself for hours that day, had gone back and forth fighting with himself. It is unfair, the way that when he finally felt like he had an answer, the way that he had his phone out and the way that it went to voicemail because Walter was already dead, crumpled under the weight of a truck and a building alike. It is unfair, because if he had called even twenty minutes before, Walter wouldn’t have been in that place to be the lone casualty of faulty brakes and a steep hill.

 

Jim squeezes his eyes shut, and at last he crumbles, sliding against the counter until he lands on the ground and hugs his knees to his chest.

 

_ “What else have I ever known but you?” _

 

He heaves out a sob, a choked sound as he winds himself tighter and tighter, pain washing over him in huge tidal waves that he is helpless to stop. He suddenly remembers the photograph in his pocket, and with a shaky hand he reaches into his jacket to pull it out. As he looks down at it, he sees two faces pressed together in a kiss. It’s Jim’s seventeenth birthday, and he’s in nothing but his boxers as he sits in Walter’s lap, the man similarly in nothing but his underwear. His comparatively large hand is spread across Jim’s ribcage, framing the fresh scars under his pectorals. Jim sobs as he reads the note that he had written on the photo in permanent marker so many years ago.

 

He buries his face in his knees, body trembling, nails digging into his calves. He can hear the kitchen door click open, hear his mother’s voice, but he just shakes his head and holds himself tighter, tighter, tighter, trying to very hard to keep himself in one piece.

 

_ I love you always and forever. _

_ XOXO, Your Atlas _


End file.
